Civil

For our daughter’s sake, I’ll remember       sweat
like an hour glass on the back of your       shirt
as you axed the felled branches for      winter.

Baking

The man who first crushed flour       understood
you’d come, oil and water on your       hands.

On Considering the Career of a Minor Poet

The tenure track. The afterglow.
The rage, the Prize. You never know.

At a Shell Station

While working the graveyard shift,
I see Aphrodite in the froth
of a rabid dog’s lips.

Tanka

Beneath two arches
a straight line,
scrawled into the child’s
blue imagination
the prison shape for bird.

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Melissa Carl
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